Two of Genesis’s soldiers stepped up and marched Morrison toward the interrogation building.
Stone caught Law’s arm before he could follow.
“I’m sorry…about before,” Stone said.
“You mean about dumping me for Dave?” Law smirked. The silence stretched between them and Stone sighed.
“Don’t be,” Law continued. “I understood. I hope that it’s worked out for you two.”
“It hasn’t. But maybe after he retires, it will.” Stone grimaced at the uncertainty in his own voice.
Law, being who he was, noticed and thankfully said nothing.
Inside the interrogation barn, the air smelled of sweat and old wood. Morrison slumped in the chair, cuffs biting into his wrists, blood crusted at his temple where Stone had put him down.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” Morrison spat again, eyes wild. “Franklin owns this desert. He owns all of you. You’re dead already.”
Stone leaned in, resting both palms on the table, voice low and edged like a blade. “Funny. You don’t look like a man in charge. You look like a man begging for someone else to save his ass.”
Morrison bared bloody teeth. “You’ll see. He doesn’t lose.”
“Who? Franklin…or Titus?” Stone dropped the name and watched the shock settle over Morrison’s face.
Before Stone could shove harder, the door opened and a young man slipped inside. Twenty-five, quiet as a shadow.
Curly, bright blond hair fell into his forest-green eyes, at odds with the way he carried himself. Those eyes missed nothing—always watching, measuring, never at ease. Slender but wiry, he moved with the kind of stride that came from surviving streets where hesitation meant getting dead. Every glance said he’d seen too much, every shift of his shoulders said don’t fuck with him.
Sage. One of Tanis and Solomon’s boys a long time ago—now sharpened from years on the streets. Quick, precise, hardened beyond his age, he’d merged into the YA team at the ranch like a blade finding its sheath.
“I’ll need his phone,” Sage said quietly, holding out a slim hand.
Law arched a brow but dug into Morrison’s pocket, fishing out a cell phone and handing it over. “Don’t fry it. We might need what’s inside.”
Sage didn’t flinch. He held the phone up to Morrison’s face and unlocked it before dropping into the corner of the room. Pulling tools from his jacket, he worked the device with swift, practiced movements. Watchful. Efficient.
Morrison thrashed against his zip-ties, spit flying. “You think some fucking kid’s gonna save you? Titus…er Franklin will gut you motherfuckers before you know he’s coming!”
“So, you do know Titus?” Stone said.
“Fuck you!”
Stone straightened, towering over the man. “Keep stalling. It only makes me want to shut you up permanently.”
Viper’s voice cut in, calm but steel-edged. “Stone.”
Stone backed off a step, but his stare stayed locked on Morrison until the merc dropped his eyes.
Minutes passed, the only sounds Sage’s quick taps and Morrison’s ragged breathing. Then, with a faint click, Sage handed the phone to Viper.
Viper scanned the screen and smirked. “And now we have Franklin’s general location. It’s not only this desert—it’s all of the West Coast. And we have confirmation that Titus is in charge.” He waggled the phone at Morrison. “Thanks for the info.”
A plethora of profanity spewed from Morrison.
“I’ll call Dave,” Stone said, exhaling through his nose.
He stepped outside, pulled his phone, and hit Dave’s private line. The ring cut off fast.
“David Allen’s line,” Clinton’s clipped voice answered.
